


Snapshots

by AlyxStar



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Gen, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-06
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2018-10-15 19:21:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10556350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlyxStar/pseuds/AlyxStar
Summary: A glimpse into the life of Noctis Lucis Caelum, one moment at a time.





	1. Meddle

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: you know the drill, I don't own FFXV or any of its content. Square Enix does.
> 
> A/N: so I've been wanting to do something similar to the "Segments" fic I made for Dragon Age II. Since I now have a fairly decent list of random words to use as inspiration, I figured I'd start it now. I have no idea how many chapters this will have. More characters are bound to pop up later, and maybe a relationship. Haven't decided on that yet XD
> 
> I’m on [tumblr](http://courtingdestruction.tumblr.com).  Come and say hi :)

When her son is four and wakes screaming from a nightmare of fire and death, Queen Aulea ignores all past warnings from her husband and enters the Crystal’s vault.  She speaks with the immovable resolve of a woman protecting her own, the rage of a mother protecting her child, forges through the oppressive force attempting to drag her back with every step forward she takes.

“Is it not enough that my husband sacrifices his life for you?  Is it not enough that he ages faster than he should, will die earlier than he should?  You will take my husband from me, and you want my _son_?”

_You meddle in affairs beyond your reach, mortal queen._

“He is _my_ blood -”

_Your relation is meaningless._

“He is _my_ son.  And you _will not have him_.”

Fury answers fury, the suffocating presence in the vault with her increasing tenfold, battering against her as gales might with the stubborn last of summer’s flowers.  Pride is a fierce thing in her breast when she doesn’t stumble, doesn’t give the Crystal the satisfaction of driving her to her knees.

**You will not interfere!**

A pinprick of pain in her hand draws her gaze away, frowning at the thin line of red spanning from the pad of her middle finger down to the center of her palm, and the Crystal flashes the exact same shade as her blood.

* * *

Not even a month has passed when her health starts to falter.

By the fifth she is too frail to walk without aid.

By the seventh she is little more than a husk of the woman who stormed the vault.

By the tenth her eyes have lost their sparkle and the words for her son’s favourite bedtime story dart away from her faster than she can vocalise them.

She is buried exactly one year later.


	2. Babysitter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here comes the hero~

He’s tired and cranky and oh so tempted to drag his feet along the gleaming floors and slouch forward because every step sends a fresh lance of aches through protesting muscles.  But to loosen one’s posture in the corridors is to invite the wrath of the Marshal, and having just escaped a training session with him, Nyx is in no mood to return to feeling like a ping-pong ball battered around by a group of Hobgoblins.

He’s so tired (and perhaps just a touch dehydrated, if he’s being honest with himself) that for a moment he honest to gods thinks he’s hallucinating the small form running straight for his legs in a mess of wind-tousled hair and flailing arms.  But Scientia’s kid _does_ collide with him and rebound with an “oof”, sprawling on the floor at his feet and panting like he’s run a marathon.  Given the fine tremble in his limbs and the seriously red face (any moment steam’s bound to come out of his ears or his head will pop off his shoulders and rocket into the clouds far above the Citadel’s rooftops) maybe he _has_.

“Ignis, right?  You okay kid?”  He asks, prying thin shoulders up off the floor as he crouches beside him if only to give the kid an easier time at breathing.  A shaking hand reaches up to fix glasses that have been knocked askew in his tumble, so much like Scientia that Nyx is given a glimpse of him in adorable miniature, and then he’s prattling on a mile a minute between huffing and puffing for breath.

He only needs to hear the words _courtyard_ and _accident_ and _Prince_ to know why the kid’s just about signed his own admittance to the medical wing to find a Glaive (in training), hoisting the slight boy into his arms and taking off at a jog just the wrong side of leisurely to avoid funny looks by those he passes.  Honestly – the King might as well quit beating around the bush and hire him as a babysitter already, with how often he goes to his son’s rescue.

* * *

He laughs.   _Hysterically_.  So hard that he has to wipe tears from his eyes and clutch at the stitch in his side, and then grab Ignis and hold him at arm’s length when the kid boots him square in the shin for the “audacity” (he’s _seven_ , a kid his age shouldn’t know such a word for crap’s sake).  There the Prince is, a tiny little speck _twenty-seven_ floors up, curled up on the window frame of the office belonging to one infamously bad-tempered Clarus Amicitia.  He’s almost tempted to shout up if Noctis is enjoying the view, but he’s not _that_ much of an insensitive asshole, and Ignis is probably too young to appreciate sarcasm.  He doesn’t want the kid busting into tears.

 _Okay.  Time to act the hero, Nyx.  You’ve got this.  Just aim high and keep climbing._   He shakes out his fingers, rolls out any tension in his shoulders, and slips one of the kukris from his belt.  He holds it at an angle, lets his eyes glance along the blade as he lifts it higher, and higher again, looking for the perfect handhold to aim for.  Finding it more than half the distance _below_ Noctis isn’t great, far from it, but hey.  The Marshal is always harping on about finding a lesson in even the small things.  Good experience, right?  Doesn’t matter that his muscles are screaming bloody murder, right?

On the plus side – if he goes splat on the ground at least they’ll carve on his gravestone that he died in service to the Prince of Lucis.

“I’ll be back in a minute.   _Stay right here_.”

“Where else –”  The rest of the kid’s words are stolen by the electric-snap of magic bursting along his skin and through his bones, yanking him from _here_ to that someplace _other_ where gravity is non-existent and the general rules of physics don’t apply.  And then he’s back at the Citadel again, blinking away the blue clouding his vision and holding onto his weapon for dear life, scrabbling along the brickwork with his free hand until he finds the gap and anchors himself to the wall.  He ignores the temptation to look down, knowing full well that seeing any distance between his feet and the ground will make him upchuck in ways the merry hell of warping hasn’t succeeded in _just yet_.  Another handhold to locate, another calculated toss of his blade, laughter because it’s the only thing keeping him from screaming at himself for this _idiocy_.  Another warp, then another, and another, and another.

* * *

By the time he’s carefully easing his feet onto the windowsill and bracing his hands on the frame, he’s less concerned about the Prince accidentally kicking in the window and more worried that he’s about to paint the detailed glasswork with every meal he’s had in the past week.  But he does his best to keep the queasiness from his face as he fixes Noctis with what he hopes is a cheery smile and oh so slowly inches his hand down to wiggle his fingers in front of the boy’s face.

“So.  Wanna tell me how you wound up stuck up here?”

“I… uhm... I sneezed?”

He blinks once.  Twice.  Three times for good measure.  Absolutely _sure_ he didn’t hear that right, but Noctis is the picture of sincerity (and barely contained panic), and the absurdity of the entire situation almost has him laughing again.

Almost.

Instead he grabs hold of the Prince’s arm quick as a striking snake, hoisting him up to balance on his hip and just as Noctis starts screaming, Nyx jumps from the windowsill and straight into what he sincerely hopes is his last warp for the rest of the bloody _year_.

* * *

Much to his despair, it isn’t his last one of the year.  And accidental-warping-by-sneezing isn’t the _worst_ predicament the young Prince lands himself in.

And the King never does hire him as a babysitter, but he somehow still ends up being the one who hauls Noctis _and_ Ignis out of trouble.  Every time.

And all before he reaches his twenty-first birthday.


	3. Children

Every time he sees the two of them interact he is tempted to ask his son what he thinks of Ignis Scientia, but he knows that if he does he might just scare Noctis away from the lad.

He does not need Noctis’ opinion to know that Ignis is good for him.  After his mother’s death he’d grown so very quiet, offering perhaps five words at most at any given time and only when directly asked a question.  There was no pain that could compare to the breaking of his heart every time he looked at his son and saw the haunted expression he couldn’t hide at such a young age, the bruise-like shadows under his eyes and the redness to them from so many nights crying into his pillow or into the soft cotton of Regis’ nightshirt.

Ignis Scientia, for all that he is a quiet and serious boy, makes his son laugh.  Shy little giggles that seem to surprise Noctis as much as they do everyone else, hands clapping over his mouth and eyes going wide before he’s running off for some game or another that only makes sense to children their age.

Or _pranks_.

It has since become common, unspoken knowledge that any meeting Regis holds in _this_ room is an unofficial affair that might or might not be sabotaged by his son and his new friend, that any person who enters the room is taking their reputation into their own hands and all but tossing it at his son to _ruin_ in the most delightfully innocent of ways.  A select few even play along just to amuse the boys.

Even Cor Leonis.

* * *

He already knows the boys have orchestrated something.  The giggles and the frantic whispers of “shh!” from the general vicinity of the window ( _not_ that Regis can see the two pairs of shoes poking out from beneath the curtains or see the fabric shaking with their mirth) is warning enough that they’ve come up with yet another thing to frustrate and amuse adults in equal measure.  He makes sure to point to where the boys are _not_ hidden when Cor first enters the room so he knows in advance that _something_ is going to happen and that he should engage in conversation as normal, and it all goes downhill from there.

Cor has barely even had time to utter a “good evening, Your Majesty” and get himself comfortable before the boys’ prank makes itself known in the form of the absurdly loud report of a whoopee cushion dying one of its many repeated deaths under the weight of a fully grown adult dropping all of their weight onto it at once.  He will never admit to how very hard he has to work to keep a hold of his composure, to quickly smother his laughter in a pretend coughing fit and to keep the amusement from overtaking his face, when Cor outright freezes at the noise that has sounded from the region of his posterior, clutching at the armrest so tightly that all colour has bled from his knuckles, stunned eyes wide on Regis’ face.

Where he has succeeded in correcting his laughter the boys ultimately fail, and a fresh round of giggling shakes the curtain they hide behind, the very same curtain Cor whips his head around to _glower_ at.

“It would appear that we have some daemons present, Your Majesty,” he says, completely deadpan and if it weren’t for the beginnings of a smirk Regis knows to look out for he’d suspect the Marshal was genuinely angered.

“We’re not -mmpph!”  That was unmistakably Noctis, with his outburst probably muffled by a hand belonging to the smarter of the two.  A notion confirmed a moment later when there’s another hissed “shh!” and some more trembling from the curtain.

“Stay where you are, Your Majesty, I will hunt them down,” Cor says as he gets to his feet, twisting around to peer over the back of the chaise lounge before steadily making his way around the room and announcing each potential hiding spot before he investigates.  The boys make an admirable effort to keep their debate (“he’s going to find us”, “he won’t, who’d think to check _here_?”, “are you _sure_?”, “Iggy he’s an _adult_ , duh”) quiet, but quiet for a child is vastly different to that for an adult.  By the time Cor is advancing on the window with a positively evil (but gleeful) look on his face, Regis is all but shaking with silent laughter.

“I do believe our _visitors_ … might just be hiding… by the _window_!”  As his hand closes on the curtain and yanks the dark grey fabric aside Noctis scrambles from his hiding spot in a tangle of flailing limbs, yelping for Ignis to _run_ even as the older boy pelts after him and out the door, giggling.

Regis gives up at that point, laughs and laughs and _laughs_ until he can’t breathe and, surprisingly enough, Cor drops to the floor in much the same state.


	4. Laughter

There are different ways in which Noctis announces his presence in the audience chamber.  Sometimes it is by the scuff of polished shoes and the  _deliberate_ squeak of rubber soles as he twists his feet this way and that, adorable pout taking just the edge off his slumped shoulders and annoyed frown after a particularly long, _testing_ day at school, Ignis by his side and chattering quietly to him, always careful of the volume so his voice doesn't travel.  Other times it will be with whistles, despite his many efforts to coax his son from the habit, frequently settling on the tune often played over the Regalia's radio before announcements of new arrivals at the chocobo farm in Duscae.  He has a bounce to his step when he whistles, and a beaming grin so light it shames even the magic pulsing through the Wall at night.  Occasionally Noctis will be stumbling, almost dead on his feet, weight supported by his loyal friend and companion and barely uttering a "hi Dad" before he's nodding off and nearly tumbling back down the stairs.

Regis' personal favourite, however, is the peals of laughter only Clarus and Cor can seem to pull from him after an afternoon spent under young Gladio's watchful eye.  They will each hold a delicate hand in both of their own, and between them they will swing Noctis with every step they take as he kicks his legs back and forth to gain momentum.  The only cue Regis gets to leave the throne and make his careful way down the steps is their huddled appearance through the great doors, walking towards them so the distance they have to carry his son is shorter.  But he has seen their eyes plenty of times in the past to know they do not mind such antics, has glimpsed the secret curl to two mouths so fond of scowling every hour of the day and has heard their laughter add deeper notes through his son's own to know that his boy has both hardened warriors wrapped around his little finger.

_"A leg and a wing to see the king,_  
_A one,_  
_A two,  
_ _And a three!"_

Every time, they give one last mighty swing on the count of three, and every time Regis lets his cane fall aside in favour of catching his son and cradling him in his arms, Noct's own locked around his neck and giggling a bright and happy sound ringing in his ear as Noctis kicks his feet where they dangle above the floor.   _These_ greetings are rare, and Regis cherishes every one of them, knows that time is against them both with his son's lingering despair since his mother's passing, and with his own growing weakness thanks to the demands of the Crystal.

But for now he is strong enough to catch his son and hold him tight and plant a dozen kisses on his face just to hear his squeaking complaints of his beard tickling.  And all is well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Mum and Gran used to do this with me, except they'd launch me into the sofa cushions. I thought it'd be sweet if something similar happened with Noctis :)


	5. Sickness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I remember being asked to try my hand at writing about Noctis being ill as a wee lad - here we are.

Noctis is a poorly lad after the Crystal chooses him, as though the awakening of magic in his blood compromises his immune system to keep some sort of ethereal balance.  It's not uncommon for him to be bedridden for days at a time, or even a week, every couple of months.  It's also not uncommon to find the King by his bedside, one small hand clasped between both of his own as he rubs circles over delicate skin and watches his son's eyes flit beneath bruise-dark lids, darting forward without a care for his aching knee to prop Noctis up when a particularly vicious coughing fit steals rest from him yet again and he whines for his Papa.  The doctors say he will fall ill with whatever cold, virus, or flu plagues his boy and even Clarus suggests distance might be better for his own failing health, but in those days Regis is a father first and a King second and when his son sips at all manner of foul teas in an effort to soothe his strained throat and fixes him with those tired, hopeful eyes... he is powerless to refuse the request for a story.   _Of course_ he arranges himself comfortably on the bed and pull Noctis into his side, draws his fingers through sweat-damp hair over and over again while he reads the favourite books, of course he sets the scene and puts on ridiculous voices for the characters, hugs his boy close when he feels him start to grow heavy against his side, of course he will continue until Noctis is well and truly asleep, and then he'll tuck the quilt in around him and press a kiss to his head and settle down beside him until the next round of coughing starts up again.

Sometimes when Noctis is too  _exhausted_ to pay attention to stories, when his breathing is heaviest and he goes through boxes of tissues at a time with the gunk he coughs up, Regis will send a bird of fire soaring through the bedchambers, embers dancing from the graceful sweep of wings and painting pictures in the air for Noctis to peer at from where his head rests on Regis' chest, over his heartbeat.  Sometimes when Noctis has fallen asleep to the show Regis will call the bird to alight on the headboard, where it will spread its harmless flames over the bed and emit pulses of warmth whenever his son starts shivering again.  Regis will occasionally fall sick after such instances, when the use of magic weakens him, but it is a small price to pay if it helps plants Noctis' feet firmly on the path to recovery.

And Noctis, as young as he is, thinks he's hallucinating when the glowing blue figures pop up in the dead of night to guard him against the long shadows and the daemons he  _knows_ are kept away with the pretty Wall around the city, but still fears anyway.  Some of them are super scary, all pointy bits and  _huge_ weapons bigger than Gladio!  Others are just normal people with laughter like windchimes and nice smiles.  He especially likes the lady fond of wearing a hooded cloak with a star-shaped...  _thing_ attached to her belt because she tells him some of the  _coolest_ pranks and directs him to all the best hidey-holes in his home so he doesn't get caught.

He doesn't realise until many years later, when he joins his father in his study to learn about their bloodline, that the glowing figures are actually the Lucis Caelums of old, the ancestors connected to him as they are to his father, through their birthright, through the power gifted to them by the Astrals.


	6. Chapter 6

"Wait, Dad wait!  Stop the car!"

"Your Majesty -"

" _Please_ , Dad, just for a minute?"

"... It's alright, Cor.  Pull over."

The Regalia eases to a stop a full three car-lengths later, and he doesn't need to meet those steel blue eyes in the rearview mirror to know that Cor disapproves of the unscheduled delay in such a public environment, but his son has requested it, all but  _tears_ his seatbelt off in his haste to escape the car, scurries around her rear to yank open the door for Regis.  How can he possibly say no to his boy when there's excitement buzzing in his voice and limbs, so strong that he bounces up and down on his tiptoes as he waits for him to slowly, carefully, rock his uncooperative body from the seat?  He leans against the Regalia for support until Cor presses his cane into his hands, and then he's leaning most of his weight on it as Noctis impatiently tugs at his sleeve.

"What is it, son?"

"It's her, Dad!"

"Who is who?"

"Her!  The giant lady!"  Noctis all but crows, pointing up and up and up at the hulking statue of one of their ancestors.

The Rogue.

"What about her, son?"

"It's the lady who speaks to me on Sundays, Dad!  She shows me how to throw things, remember?"

_Impossible._

**Author's Note:**

> I'm open to suggestions for any other words to take a stab at. Until the next chapter, my lovelies, toodles~ *zips away*


End file.
